The Assassin Game Page 25

  I nod my head, but I don’t believe him. Vaughan is out there. It would absolutely make sense for him to get rid of Crypt for now.

  “Get my tablet for me anyway?” I pull a sad face for Martin. “To take my mind off things.” He looks reluctant but nods. “Thanks. And one more favor. Can you find Daniel for me? Get him to visit?” He nods again, and I smile sardonically. “I bet no one can believe that he was the Killer, eh?”

  Martin shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Daniel,” I say. “Was the Killer. In the Game.”

  Martin looks angry. “He was not! Who told you that? No way, I was the Killer!”

  “What?”

  He stands up. “I was going to tell you all in the cave, before it—you know—happened, but then Alex showed up and told us the police were coming, and I didn’t get the chance. But it was me, all right.” He puffs up his chest. “I had to tell the police, show them everything I’d used in the lab, the paint powder, show them how I’d climbed up the drainpipe and in through the attic in Main House to drop down to the girls’ dorms.”

  I choke out a laugh. “You did that?”

  “Absolutely.” His face is proud; then he falters. “My parents have got a bill for the pool clean-up. They’re pretty peeved about it.”

  “I found the Killer card though,” I say. “In Daniel’s violin case. How did it get there?”

  “You have it?” Martin says, moving on to the bench beside me again. “I lost it! Dropped it somewhere, just after the first Summoning. Alex said he was going to kill me! Can I have it back, please? For a souvenir?”

  “Gosh, Martin.” I pat him on the hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t have it anymore. But well done you. I never would have guessed.” I have a sudden thought. “Did you plant Marcia’s bag in the hedge, after the Cynthia Kill?”

  He nods sadly. “I saw you find it. Meant it to be a red herring so that everyone would think it was her.” He looks mad at me. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you’d found it? What a waste.”

  “Well.” I clear my throat and smother the urge to shove him off the bench. “Sorry that particular strategy didn’t work out for you. But hey, Martin, kudos for the rest of it. How on earth did you manage to pull everything together so quickly?”

  Martin leans in. “Well, look don’t tell anyone, but I knew in advance that I was going to be the Killer. Alex fixed it. He, er, owed me a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I wrote up a couple of his papers last term. Stuff he couldn’t do himself. No big deal, but between me and you, yes?” He stands up again, looks around. “And no harm done, eh? Won’t be playing the Game again, ever.” He looks at me closely. “And just so we’re clear, as I told the police, the whole Skulk business? Not me. I was General Disarray, I’ll have you know.”

  He walks to the hedge. “I’ll bring your tablet after dinner. We’re only here another day anyway. Then they’re sending us home. Early half term,” he says. “Then after that, who knows? I suppose now that we know that Vaughan was the Killer, we’re all safe here.”

  “No, you’ve got it all wrong.” I spring up. “Vaughan is not the Killer!” I hear myself scream. I should really tone it down, but somehow I can’t help myself. “He’s not dead, and he’s not the Killer! Are you stupid? Is everyone stupid? He’s not the Killer! Not the Killer! Not the Killer!”

  Martin looks at me, scared, and leaves hurriedly. The nurse and the policeman appear at my side and walk me back to my sickbed. The little blue pills are waiting for me.

  I wake up later, and it’s dark outside and raining. My bedside lamp is on, and there on the table is my tablet. Thank you, Martin. I groggily crawl out of bed, take it over to the window, and get on to the school intranet. I tap on the password box and put in my password for Crypt.

  There! It springs up immediately.

  Stupid Martin, what does he know?

  There’s nothing new on Crypt. No Skulk, no Vaughan-as-DeadMcTavish, no nobody. I look at the map; no users online, except me, at the sick bay. I click on the new IM box, and my fingers hover over the text box. I type @DeadMcTavish. And I write. And write.

  I tell him I know he’s out there. I tell him to be strong, that we’ve got this, we’ll clear his name, find the real killer, and everything will be all right. He just needs to tell me what to do. I tell him that Martin was the Killer in the Game, and that I’m going to talk to Daniel because I’ve thought it all through, and I’m really doubting that he’s Skulk and was involved in what happened to Emily, Marcia, and Rick. No, Daniel’s just a sad and lonely boy. Skulk is the killer, Skulk is a monster, and he’s still out there and wants to kill me—kill us both. We need to find him, need to trap him, and we don’t have much time because the police think it’s case closed, and everyone’s leaving Skola soon and it will be too late.

  And then I tell him that I love him.

  And then I delete that bit, because it’s too bloody sappy and there’ll be time for all of that later.

  And then I press Return.

  The message pings out into the ether. I watch the screen intensely, like I’ve never watched anything in my life before. I will him to appear. He has to. I wait like that for five, ten minutes, and then fifteen, refreshing the screen over and over to stop Crypt from logging me out, terrified that if it bumps me off, I’ll never get on again. And then I wake up with a jerk of my head and I realize that I’ve fallen asleep in the chair by the window, and I hold my breath as I log in, and my heart leaps as Crypt appears, but falls again as there’s no new message from DeadMcTavish. I stare at the screen, settling myself in for the long haul, gripping my fingernails into my palms to keep myself from falling asleep again.

  An hour passes. Nothing. Then an hour and a half. No word.

  Dejected, I stumble back to bed. I wake once or twice in the night, and each time I check. Silence in the Crypt.

  In the morning, I wake up with a clearer head.

  I wake up my tablet, log in to Crypt.

  Still nothing.

  I get up, shower, put on my clothes, which have been thoughtfully laundered. Normal clothes make me feel more normal again. This is ridiculous; they can’t keep me in the sick bay. I’m not sick! I pace up and down again, check in on Crypt occasionally, and just as I’m about to try and convince them to let me go out, there’s a knock at the door.

  I walk over and answer it.

  Daniel’s standing there, looking shocked.

  “Hi!” He looks me up and down. “I was expecting you to be in bed!” He instantly flushes, realizing how that sounds. I resist the urge to roll my eyes, and beckon him in, where he stands, swinging his violin case against his legs gently.

  “Grab that chair.” I sit on the bottom of the bed.

  Daniel stays where he is and holds out one hand.

  “Cate, I just want you to know, I’m so, so sorry.”

  I nod. “What for?”

  His head tilts, he’s confused. “I’m sorry about Vaughan, of course.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I dismiss him. “No, I thought you meant you were sorry about jumping on me the other day.”

  “What?” Daniel puts his violin case down by the chair with a thud. “Oh God.” He shakes his head. “I would never, Cate, never hurt you, you know that—”

  “Really?” I say. “Because it freaked me the hell out.” I gesture to his arms. “You’re strong, Daniel. Probably stronger than you realize.”

  He stares at me. “Well…I know I was a little out of control, but you didn’t say no.”

  “Ha!” I cry out and jump up from the bed, walking toward where he’s standing. “You really thought I was into it, did you, Daniel? Maybe I couldn’t say no because your tongue was down my throat, did you ever think of that?”

  He shakes his head. “No—I know, and, Cate, I am sorry. I’m so sorry. I�
��ll never do that again. You pushed me, and then I was just so, I don’t know, overcome with—”

  “Sit down.” I push his chest—gently but firmly—so that he backs into the chair and falls onto it. “And shut up.” I look down at him. “This is what we’re going to do. I don’t think you’re a bad person, Daniel, and I don’t think you meant to frighten me, but you need help dealing with all your pent-up…stuff.” I walk back to the bed and sit again. “I’m not going to tell anyone here what happened, as long as you do one thing: talk to a therapist. There’s one here on the island—for post-traumatic Game-playing disorder or something—you’ve seen him around?”

  Daniel nods quickly.

  “Good. He seems OK. Came to see me but I was too zonked to talk. Anyway. Talk to him, tell him what happened. Get some help.”

  “Yes.” He nods again. “I can. I can do that.”

  “You’d better,” I agree. “And one more thing. I’m writing to your parents and telling them everything.”

  “No!” He leaps up from the chair. “You can’t do that!”

  I hold a hand out. “I can, Daniel. I have to. Now if you don’t sit down, I’m screaming for the policeman outside that door.” He looks at me, his eyes full of anger and fear, but sits down anyway. I take a breath. “You scared me, Daniel. Do you understand how that feels? Of course you do; you feel scared every day.”

  He deflates in front of me, bows his head. My voice softens.

  “We’re kids, Daniel. We like to think we’re on top of it all, but living is really, really difficult sometimes. We can’t be expected to deal with this all by ourselves.” He starts to cry. “I don’t want to ruin your life by telling anyone, but I’ve gone back and forth on what I should do, and I’ve decided that, actually, this is not my problem to solve.”

  He is sitting there, sobbing gently. In spite of it all, I feel sorry for him. “Your parents are OK, Daniel, you know? They’ll freak out a bit, but they love you, and they’ll help you.”

  I walk to the chair, pick up the violin case, and hand it to him. He snatches it from me, and as he does my nail catches on one of the stickers, his favorite one with the cat drawn in a red swirl.

  “Oh!” I say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” The sticker rips and half hangs off the case in a curl.

  Daniel looks at me, and this time his eyes are filled with nothing but hate.

  “Die, Cate. Just go away and die.” He rushes for the door, flings it open, and leaves.

  The policeman comes in. “You OK, miss?”

  “Fine, thank you.” I nod. “Could I have a piece of paper and a pen, please? I need to write a letter.”

  It takes a while to write that letter. Firstly because my hand is shaking so much, and then it takes time to find the words. Halfway through, the nurse brings me lunch, and I have to start again because I get minestrone on the paper. Once it’s done, I find Daniel’s home address on my tablet. The nurse is kind and finds me an envelope and a stamp.

  “Hmm, missed the collection today, I think.” She looks at her watch and nods. “Do you want me to put it in the box for tomorrow?” she asks. The school’s outgoing mailbox is in the courtyard at Main House. I nod and thank her and return to my room.

  Exiting my contact list on my tablet, I give it one more go. I log in to Crypt, but I am the only one there again. On the map, one little red skull hovering over the sick bay. Clouseau. Yeah, that’s about right. A rubbish detective, me. Laughable. As I stare at the skull, Crypt auto logs me off, and the tears come, tears of self-pity, tears of the stress of dealing with Daniel, and the creeping realization that maybe—just maybe—everyone else is right about Vaughan, and I am wrong. My whole body starts to shake, and I have to put the tablet down to hold on to the windowsill for support.

  The nurse opens the door.

  “It’s time for your pills, but I was wondering if you want to ease off them now—oh.” She sees my face, sees the tears falling, and my shoulders shaking. She comes to me, comforts me, wraps a blanket around me while I cry, and presses the small plastic cup of two blue pills into my hand. She watches me, nodding, while I swallow them with a sip of water.

  “Let’s get you into your bed,” she soothes.

  “I will.” I nod. “Just shutting this down,” I say, looking at the tablet.

  “I’ll check on you in a few minutes.” She gives me a sympathetic smile and leaves.

  I let out a sigh and reach over to close the tablet down. But it’s like a sickness, an addiction even stronger than Kreepy Klowns. I log on to Crypt again.

  Two red skulls.

  The pills are making me see double. I blink, look again.

  Clouseau is hovering over the sick bay. Me.

  Another red skull at the caves.

  I tap on the skull, and the username comes up.

  DeadMcTavish

  My mouth opens, gulping for air, I feel those walls start to wobble again, and this time I don’t think it’s the medication.

  And then, a message appears.

  DeadMcTavish

  OK, darlin’. Let’s do this. It’s time to catch a killer.

  Chapter 25

  The first thing, the very first thing I do, is go to the bathroom and throw up those pills. They stare up at me from the toilet bowl; some of the blue has rubbed off, but they’re intact. I grab a glass of water and down it in one.

  And then I race back to my tablet and type furiously.

  Clouseau

  Vee?! Is that really you?

  At first there’s no reply, and I begin to think I’m going crazy, but then, a ping.

  DeadMcTavish

  It’s me.

  I gather my thoughts for a millisecond and then type.

  Clouseau

  Where the hell have you been? Are you OK??? Why did you disappear? What were you thinking? Where are you hiding—are you really in the cave? Are you OK??? Oh God, I can’t believe this is happening!!!!

  Nothing appears for a moment, then…

  DeadMcTavish

  Disappeared to protect you, to catch the killer. Only way.

  I rub my face, frantically, then type again.

  Clouseau

  Who, Vaughan? Who is it?

  DeadMcTavish

  Just come. 6 p.m.

  I pause, my heart beating so hard I think I’m having some kind of coronary event. But I can’t listen to my heart here; I have to use my head. I type.

  Clouseau

  How do I know this is you?

  I wait. And wait…

  Ping.

  DeadMcTavish

  I love you.

  A hot and cold wave flushes over me. I think I’m going to pass out. But I type again.

  Clouseau

  HOW DO I KNOW IT’S YOU???

  I wait. Listen for the ping. And wait. And wait.

  The little red skull over the caves disappears.

  “Jesus Christ on a bike!” I shout at the tablet and then slap a hand over my mouth. I get up, look out the window. I look at the clock; it’s just after 3 p.m. Nearly three hours to wait? Is Vaughan insane?

  But I can’t be angry with him—the relief, the sheer, wonderful relief that he is alive is so immense that I feel like I am exploding with joy and strength. I have the power of a hundred Cates, and I will get this done.

  OK, OK, now…how do I get out of this joint? That’s the first hurdle. You can bet that the nurse and my police guard aren’t just going to let me go for a stroll. I stare out of the very locked window, and then it comes to me. I walk to the door and open it.

  “Could you get the superintendent, please?” I say to the police officer. “I have some very important information.”

  He stands up, surprised. “What information?”

  I take a breath. “I want to make a statement. To the superint
endent. Could you get him?”

  He nods, and as he reaches around to the front of his chest, my heart sinks. He grabs a walkie-talkie and clicks on a button.

  Nope. Nope. Nope. I wanted him to actually leave, not call him!

  He talks into the walkie-talkie, trying to raise the superintendent. But luck is on my side. Either the Skola wind is blowing in the wrong direction, or strange magnetic fields from whatever weird science our geeks are currently conducting in the nearby labs prevents the superintendent from answering. Eventually, some other police bod tells my cop that the super is at the sports center.

  “Affirmative, mate,” my cop says. “I’m nearer. I’ll walk there. Over.” He looks at me. “Sit tight in your room. I’ll go and get him. Two minutes.”

  I nod and shut the door. Act One, done. Now for Act Two.

  I reach for the half bowl of minestrone, still on the windowsill by my tablet, and I slosh my glass of water into it, the carrots and peas floating there ominously, alongside bloated pasta pieces. I pour a little of the mixture back into the glass, then pull the sheets back from my bed, and toss the contents of the bowl slap-bang in the middle of the mattress. Then it’s back to the window, where I press my face against the glass to watch the policeman walk away.

  Now, to leave it as long as I dare…I count up to ten, slowly—one assassin, two assassin, three assassin—then duck into the bathroom, splash my face with water, and think sad thoughts.

  I open the door to the waiting room. The nurse looks up at me.

  “Hi—sorry—I’m, er—can you help?” I shudder and squeeze out a tear.

  “What’s happened, love?” She comes in, and I point in anguish at the bed. “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll get this cleaned up in no time.” She grabs some towels from the bathroom, mops up the worst of it, and begins to strip the bed.

  I stand by the open door and wait until she has her arms full before letting out a moan. “Ugh, I think I’m going to—” I bend over, facing out of the door, and making a retching noise, I splash a concealed glass of the lovely minestrone blend onto the linoleum floor of the waiting room. Great sound effect. “I’m so sorry. I’ll just grab another towel from your room.” Before she can object, I’ve scooped my tablet and my coat from behind the door and am running out of the waiting room to blessed freedom, outside.